“What kind of tea do you want?”
“There´s more than one kind of tea?…What do you have?”
“Let´s see… Blueberry, Raspberry, Ginseng, Sleepytime, Green Tea, Green Tea with Lemon, Green Tea with Lemon and Honey, Liver Disaster, Ginger with Honey, Ginger Without Honey, Vanilla Almond, White Truffle Coconut, Chamomile, Blueberry Chamomile, Decaf Vanilla Walnut, Constant Comment and Earl Grey.”
-“I.. Uh…What are you having?… Did you make some of those up?”
― Bryan Lee O’Malley, Scott Pilgrim’s Precious Little Life
“What kind of tea do you want?”
This is one of my favorite prose poems of all time, a transcendentally self-mocking poetic creed that’s a delight from start to finish.
Jonathan did it. He teaches at a university in Washington now.
Or Oregon. I forget. But he said he gets fifty grand a year.
To teach creative writing. That’s like winning the lottery.
I make thirty grand and my lungs are turning into a collection
of twisted lies. I cough more than I think. I asked Jonathan
how he did it and he said he didn’t know. It was like God
napalmed him with luck. He got some award for a poem
about a goddamn lake and suddenly they pay him a thousand
dollars to read for fifty minutes in an auditorium filled
with students who don’t want to be there. I tell him to seriously
tell me how to do it and he said you have to make sure
there’s a lot of mist in the poem, that they can see the mist,
feel the mist, and then just go from there. He says that poets
love mist. They want so much mist in a poem that you can’t
see anything else other than mist and then from that mist
you have something really beautiful peek through and then
something really ugly peek through. But it can’t be too ugly,
he says, or you’re fucked. And he says don’t swear. He says
you want mist and beauty and a touch of ugly
-Ron Riekki, Juked
rt Sarah Breese
“So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past.”
- F. Scott Fitzgerald
Very excited to say that my poem “Plantains” was picked up for Blue Fifth Review’s December Poetry Special.
I sway in the kitchen while the orchid you gave
eases toward the lamplight.
I am waiting for your staccato on the door.
Green spikes my fingertips, and I roll bites
in sugar my tongue rejects.
- C. Booth is one of my favorite skincare lines. I’ve been using their tea tree oil toner on my face every day for the past week and a half and it has cleared up my skin straightaway. (Not that while I like C. Booth, I don’t think this effect is specific to just their product; rather it’s sold me on tea tree oil in general)
- TIME talked to the man who revised U.S. dietary guideline for 5 tips on eating healthy
- Writers, when you get discouraged, never forget that the The New York Times said of Steinbeck during his lifetime: “limited talent is, in his best books, watered down by tenth-rate philosophizing.” Steinbeck never published another work of fiction and died 6 years later
- These Korean Engrish signs are gold, particularly “If you want to ride again, pleas reenter after existing”
And finally, Natalie Tran of Lonely Planet went to the world’s smallest country..Monaco
I miss you the way I miss mooring docks and bright blue boats
and the fine frizzled fray of a slip knot; or a wooden bowl
worn smooth by the daily spoon and cloth,
all the ways we did and didn’t cotton.
It’s on the frozen Thames I sometimes dream you,
skating your way around apple carts, hand-presses,
coal-heaped sleds. Once I saw your beautiful bald head
as you handed your cap to an old woman, limping, fast, after her dog.
That day we flew over the Potomac, you said, here,
take this; and it wasn’t a matter of life or death
but the clamor of their conversation as I pulled
back or pushed forward on the yoke
like the honeysuckle branch you brought close to our faces
that night we climbed two fences to be alone. You said, here,
smell this; and when you let go,
I heard the sound loss makes—the way a thing going away slices
the air. Maybe it wasn’t a dog the old woman was chasing
but a fissure edged with ice;
and though she spent her whole life not knowing you,
she made, within her bony fist, your woolen cap her last soft thing.
-Annette Oxindine, Waccamaw
Alex Suskind brilliantly profiles Cowboy Bebop at The Atlantic.
“On paper, Cowboy Bebop, the legendary cult anime series from Shinichirō Watanabe, reads like something John Wayne, Elmore Leonard, and Philip K. Dick came up with during a wild, all-night whiskey bender. (As Wayne famously said, “Talk low, talk slow, and … I’m not drunk you’re drunk Elmore why’s the room spinning?”)
Set in 2071, Bebop imagines a dystopian future where earth has been irrevocably damaged due to the creation of a “stargate,” forcing humans to evacuate the planet and create colonies across the solar system. The result is a galaxy of lawlessness, where crime lords rule and cops pay bounty hunters (often referred to as cowboys) to handle some of the grunt work. People drink in dive bars. Income inequality is terrible. Everyone speaks like they’re background extras in Chinatown. The show ultimately features so many cross-ranging influences and nods to other famous works it’s almost impossible to keep track. It’s Sergio Leone in a spacesuit. It’s Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid with automatic weapons.”